


Buried In History

by ibroughtyoumybullets



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Sad Luke, actor!michael, michael has orange hair, pharmacist!luke
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-25
Updated: 2015-03-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 14:18:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3613146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibroughtyoumybullets/pseuds/ibroughtyoumybullets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I’ve never been happy with the idea of a modern American life. You get an education, and then you get a boring desk job, and then you get married, you move to the suburbs, you have kids, you drink, you hate your life, you divorce your wife, your kids grow up, you watch as the same thing begins to happen to them, and then you die. How can anyone find pleasure in that?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Buried In History

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this story started off as a fan fiction, and then became a project for a Language Arts class assignment that I had. I had to change Luke and Michael's names for the assignment and then changed them back later.  
> Just in case I missed any names while changing them back, Hale Byer is meant to be Luke and Catcher Pachelli is meant to be Michael. (Lame names, I know)  
> I'm fairly proud of this piece, so I hope you enjoy it!

The prefix _over-_ is used to show that something is excessive or beyond what is considered a normal limit.

Overact. Overweight. Overkill. Overthink.

Overdose.

That’s a word that I hear often, far too often.

Overdose.

My lips curl into a circle to form the ‘o _._ ’My front teeth make contact with the inside of my bottom lip for just a quick second to form the ‘v’before releasing to create the ‘er’ sound. My tongue hits the roof of my mouth in a quick bounce as I sound the ‘d’; my lips curling once again to form the second ‘o.’ Then, as a finale, I leave just a small bit of room between my tongue and the roof of my mouth and I release the soft hiss of the‘s _._ ’

The word dances in my mouth. It performs a quick ballet before falling out of my lips and into the air. It does small spins and twirls around my teeth while it’s still just a few delicate syllables, but then it shoots out of my mouth like a bullet from the gun that I keep hidden underneath my pillow.

Every day, that word performs its jig right there, above my jaw. It’s such a skilled dancer that it could win an award. It whirls around, so hauntingly beautiful, right in between my soft, pink lips.

It scares me, sometimes. It scares me that it sounds so wonderful.

There are bottles of pills around me, wherever I turn. The whole room is white, aside from paper labels that list active ingredients and side effects. In this small, rectangular room, it’s just me and thousands of milligrams of deadly weapons, and it all seems so welcoming, so inviting.

I see my job as my own personal purgatory.

I like my coworkers and I like my customers. I like the pay and I like the hours. Everything’s okay. Everything’s great, except for just a few things.

The worst part about being a pharmacist is being surrounded by drugs, but being unable to take any of them.

Every day, I work for eight hours. For eight hours, I hand people tiny white bags filled with tiny white bottles filled with tiny white pills.

Working here is my own reminder of how I’m not on the streets, high every night, with plastic bags of weed and cocaine stuffed into the pockets of my worn-out cargo pants and money stuffed into the pockets of my thin jacket.

Instead of selling drugs in alleys behind sketchy-looking apartments to sketchy-looking lowlifes, I sell drugs in a sanitized, suburban pharmacy to middle class white people.

It’s the American dream, right? You may hate your life, but at least you have the ability to say, “Ha, I make more money than you.”

You may be a generous, loveable, kind-hearted person, but did you graduate from an Ivy League college? Do you make over one hundred thousand dollars a year? Do you own a nice apartment that overlooks some beautiful landscape?

If not, sorry.

Being a good person just doesn’t cut it anymore.

Who knew that those tiny, blindingly white picket fences that cage all of those affluent families could create such a huge barrier between normalcy and the absurd?

I’m supposed to have everything that I need. I have a steady job and a nice apartment; what more could I need? What more could I ever ask for?

There are starving children in Africa, you know.

There are thousands of people in China who are without homes.

How could I be so selfish as to want more from my life? How could I be so inconsiderate?

How can I be standing in a room full of pills, thinking about how much I hate my life, when there are people in Cambodia who only get to eat one small cup of rice each day?

How can I be so cruel?

There’s so much that I want. Desire aches in every inch of my body, from head to toe. I want the world.

There are people in third world countries that die every day from the harsh conditions that they live in.

I want it all.

I know, I know. I should be happy. I should be satisfied. How could I ever, in my wildest dreams, want more than what I have?

I want to hear my name as I walk down streets. I want people to gasp and point as they see my face. I want to be known. I want to be remembered.

There are small boys and girls all over the world who are without clean drinking water.

I just want to see my name in sparkling lights.

But here I am, stuck in this suburban lifestyle. Here I am, pretending to have everything that I need.

The truth is, maybe I don’t want fame. Maybe I don’t care about how many people know my name or my face.

The truth is, maybe I just want to be loved.

I don’t just want people to know my name, I want them to smile every time they hear it.

If only I could find a way to be loved and remembered.

I could’ve been so much.

I could’ve had the world.

I could’ve been so much more than what I am; I’m just some ex-junkie with no family and no friends that hates his life.

I still have about one hour of work left, but I walk out of the tiny room that’s filled with countless possibilities to stop being the selfish, unhappy person that I am. I take each step with confidence as I rip off my pure white lab coat and throw it on the ground.

There are flowers in a small area of the convenience store that my pharmacy is located in. I grab some white stargazer lilies that smell like the summers I would spend riding my bike and going on adventures when I was just a young boy. They smell like youthful innocence.

I grab a notebook and a pen from the office supplies aisle.

I have everything that I need and I know what I need to do.

I walk out of the store; the confidence in my step is still there. I walk with purpose and compassion, like a student walking to get his or her diploma on graduation day.

The cold air bites at my skin, and I continue walking. I hear the rumble of tires moving on asphalt and I hear the voices of annoyed adults and curious children, and I continue walking.

My footsteps are just a soft beat hidden behind the hideous noise of all living things on Earth, and I continue walking.

My stride continues down narrow sidewalks and across busy streets. My expression remains somber as I stare out at the moving world in front of me. There’s so much noise and so much energy, but I pay no attention to any of it.

I have places to be.

I have people to forgive.

Dried up leaves crunch underneath my feet and dead grass sticks to the bottom of my shoes. The air is crisp and cold, and I have places to be.

I know that I am close to my destination when I smell flowers, their scent ever so faint.

Only a few more steps.

I take off the cap of the pen. Only a few more steps.

I begin to open the notebook. Only a few more steps.

I pull the lilies apart from each other. Only a few more steps.

I’m here.

I’m here and I take the pen and start to write in the notebook. I scribble out countless hopeless apologies that will never be read. The pages are filled with lost words expressing sorrow and fragments of angry, heart-felt thoughts.

Each page has a different release of emotion, but they all have one thing in common.

They all end in the phrase, “You are not forgotten.”

I rip out all of the pages. I’m confused, I’m angry, and I’ve never felt more content.

I wrap every note around a single lily from the broken bouquet.

Here I am, with torn pages filled with reckless words that beg for forgiveness, all blanketing a solitary flower.

I take all of the desperate remarks of regret, and I place them over every empty, lonely stone in the empty, lonely cemetery.

Most of these people haven’t been visited in years. Most of them are barely remembered.

I pray for their lost souls. I pray for them because they are without love. That is why I write these notes and steal these flowers.

I’m just trying to apologize to them for everyone who stopped caring. For everyone who forgot.

I’ll never forget.

I won’t let myself forget.

I wouldn’t dream of forgetting.

I simply can’t. I simply won’t.

I’d like to think that these people would love me if they were alive. I’d like to think that they would be thankful for me.

They’re the closest thing that I have to love. They’re all that I’ve got.

I don’t know what they were like when they were alive. They could’ve been rude, cynical, and heartless, but none of that matters to me.

Death is a second chance.

It’s a lot harder to hate a dead person than it is to hate someone who’s alive.

The cemetery is quiet and still, but my mind is racing. I’m thinking about death and life and love and hate and my thoughts are blending together and I’m not sure if they’re creating a masterpiece of a train wreck.

There’s so many people, all around the world, who will be forgotten. They aren’t lucky enough to be remembered and cherished.

Oh, how I wish I could apologize.

Everyone deserves their own life after death. Everyone deserves to be remembered.

They might not have changed the world or done any outstanding things, but they’re still people who have made accomplishments. They set goals and achieved them. They loved and they hated. They made mistakes and they learned. They lived beautiful lives.

The truth is, all lives are beautiful. The truth is, everyone does great things before they die.

It’s just that not enough people were there to witness those great things happen.

Everyone’s so consumed by their own accomplishments and they don’t acknowledge the achievements of others. They’ll never forget what they did, but never remember all of the extraordinary things that the ones around them did.

Death is the only thing that reminds someone of the great things that someone else accomplished, but it doesn’t last for long. It never does.

At funerals, everyone shares stories about how much they appreciated whoever is lying in the casket next to them. They loved the cards they would send every Christmas, or they loved that they would shovel the snow on the sidewalk for them in the winter.

But all of those things, those great things, they’re not remembered for long.

Just because an action is small, doesn’t mean that it doesn’t matter.

But still, everyone will forget.

They forget their old neighbor, or a family friend, or maybe they’ll even forget their own grandfather.

They’ll forget me.

Everyone will.

I have no one to remember me. I have no one to tell about my day at work. I have no one to share my loves, fears, and annoyances with. I have no one to-

There’s someone tapping on my shoulder. Their touch is timid and soft. They are worried; they are scared.

I turn around slowly, and there he is. He has bright orange hair and he’s wearing a dark pea coat. There is a soft blush on his cheeks and his smile is bashful.

“Hello, my name is Michael, Michael Clifford,” he says. He looks scared and intimidated. Why he looks that way, well, I don’t know.

“Luke Hemmings. Nice to meet you,” I say as I shake his hand, and it’s nice. I haven’t talked to a stranger in so long or shook anyone’s hand. I had almost forgotten this feeling, this nervousness caused by the uncertainty of what to do or what to say.

“Nice to meet you, too. If you’re wondering why I’m randomly introducing myself to you, it’s because I’m an actor, or at least, I want to be one. I have an audition in a few weeks for the role of a character who has just lost a loved one, so I came here to ask people what their experiences were like after someone close to them died. I was wondering if I could interview you?” The anxiousness in his voice is clear and present. He seems scared; if he’s scared of me or just scared in general, I’m not sure. He really has nothing to worry about though, the only person that I would hurt is myself.

“Hate to break it to you, but none of my loved ones have passed away, and it’s not like I have any of those, anyway. I’m just here because this is the only place where I can find peace,” I explain. My voice is somber and emotionless. It’s been so long since I’ve talked to anyone that wasn’t a customer or a coworker.

“Oh, I’m sorry to bother you, then,” he apologizes. He’s shifting his weight from one foot onto the other, and I could tell that he had words burning on the tip of his tongue, aching to be released. He opens his mouth and closes it again. He takes a deep breath and opens it once more, “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but why do you find peace here? I’ve never felt anything but sorrow while in a cemetery.”

“It’s hard to explain, and you probably already think I’m a creep, so I think I’ll pass on letting you see into the inner workings of my mind when I’ve only just met you,” I say. I know that it’s harsh, but that’s all I’ve ever been. Cruel, mean, harsh. It’s not that Michael is rude, it’s that I am, and I don’t think that I will ever be able to change.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” he stutters, “And I don’t think that you’re a creep, not at all.” He sounds reserved and afraid, as if I’m going to slam him into the ground and bash his head open simply because he is speaking to me.

“Look, Michael, you don’t have to apologize to me. You have been nothing but kind, and I’m not very good at being nice to people. I don’t think you should waste your time listening to a lost cause like me while I ramble on and on about my problems,” I say with a sigh. I’m changing my mind and I know it. I want to tell him everything. I want to spill my guts, but I know that I shouldn’t. I know it, and I’ve known it for years, but I can’t help but to feel a little bit safer than I usually do when I’m standing under his nervous gaze.

“Thank you, Luke. You can still tell me why you like it here, if you want to. You don’t have to, not at all, but I’m just interested,” he speaks. His layer of uncertainty and nervousness is peeling, chipping away. He even gave me a small smile, which is something that I haven’t received in a long time.

I could feel my walls slipping, too. I don’t want to let him know anything about me and I don’t want him to try to make me feel better. I don’t need help.

I don’t need help. No, not at all.

But boy, do I want it.

I want someone to make me smile and remind me that I don’t have to live my life in solitude. I want to feel safe, respected, and trusted. I want it all, but do I need it?

I don’t need the vulnerability that comes with trusting someone. I don’t need the heartache that will occur when they inevitably walk out of my life.

I know what I want, and I know what I need, and I know what I’m going to do.

“Well, I’ve lived most of my life relying on myself. I didn’t really talk to anyone, and I still don’t all that much. I fixed my own problems and I fought my own battles. I was always a hard worker, but I’ve never done anything really great, you know? And all of the good things that I’ve done, I had no one to witness them and appreciate them. I’ve lived my whole life hiding away from those around me and hiding away from my full potential.”

It was weird, letting go like this. I never thought I would tell anyone my thoughts or feelings; I never thought I would have anyone to tell.

“Not too long ago, I started becoming obsessed with the thought of my own demise. I didn’t want to off myself completely, but I just started to think about what it would be like to die. I had images of peacefulness and joy. I began to think that death would be the closest thing to perfect that I would ever get, and then I realized something. Who will remember me after I have left this world? Will my name ever be spoken again?

“I came to the conclusion that if no one remembers my life, it is pointless to even try to get up every morning and live,” I explained. My words were spewing out of my mouth faster than I could think them over in my mind. Michael was staring at me with an odd expression. It looked fond, almost. It was an expression that I don’t remember every seeing.

“So, that brings me to why I find peace in this cemetery.

“I believe that if I don’t receive the pleasure of being remembered after death, I could help these people by remembering them. It’s the least I could do, right? So, about once a week, I bring them flowers and write letters to them. I apologize to them for everyone who stopped caring.

“I guess part of me thinks that if I keep on doing this, then maybe someday, after I die, someone will do this for me, too. It probably won’t work out that way, but I can hope.” The words tumbled out of my mouth, much like water flowing out of an open floodgate. My speech filled Michael’s ears as if they were waves of a forceful tsunami. My thoughts and feelings were out, and they were never coming back.

Michael was standing in silence. His stare was unreadable: I’m not sure if he was interested or petrified.

What if he was scared? What if he thought I was too abnormal to even speak to? Would I care?

Should I care?

I’ve never cared about having other people in my life. I never bothered to form relationships. I never cared enough, but should I? Will I? Can I?

This odd man with bright orange hair, how has he changed me so much? Twenty minutes ago – not even – I was all alone. This man, this one staring at me with an unreadable gaze, how has he managed to do this? How has he gotten me to speak more in the last ten minutes than I have in the last six months? How has he gotten me to express all of these feelings that I have kept to myself for so long? How has he made me feel loved, safe, cared for?

Not even my mother, my father, or my siblings have made me feel safe, and yet I feel that right now, under this man’s concerning stare.

“I know how you feel. I know exactly how you feel,” he spoke after minutes of silence. Part of me is screaming that he’s a liar; he could never understand. The other part of me just wants to fall into the warm embrace of those kind words and never leave.

“Are you sure you understand? Are you sure that you have felt this feeling?” I want to tell him to go away. I want to tell him that no matter what he says, he will never know how I feel. I also want the reassurance that I’m not alone.

Look at me. Luke Hemmings: walking contradiction.

“I already told you that I’m an actor, right? At least, I want to be one. Anyway, I’m working on it. The reason I want to be an actor is not only my passion for acting, but also because I want to be remembered. I’ve never been happy with the idea of a modern American life. You get an education, and then you get a boring desk job, and then you get married, you move to the suburbs, you have kids, you drink, you hate your life, you divorce your wife, your kids grow up, you watch as the same thing begins to happen to them, and then you die. How can anyone find pleasure in that? How can anyone be okay with living that life? I need to be more than that. I want to be known and loved, but most of all, like you, I want to be remembered,” he rambled, barely stopping for a breath. Every word he spoke was strong and dramatic. For the first time since he tapped on my shoulder not too long ago, he was confident and proud, and it was breathtaking. It was as if I was a small match that sparked a flame of passion inside of him, but it was no measly dwindling fire, it was a fierce, blazing inferno.

“You understand. You really do.” My own words surprise me. I never thought that I would hear myself say anything of the sort.

“I know. You seem like the kind of person that is completely and utterly alone. Well, I’ll tell you what. You aren’t, and you don’t want to be, and I don’t want you to be. From now on, you’re not alone, because you have me. I’ll meet you here on Sunday at two in the afternoon, and you better be here, because I’m not giving up on you. Now, I better get going, because Boston is rather far from here and it’s getting late. It was a pleasure to meet you, Luke, and I can’t wait to see you again.”

Then, he walked away. His stride was steady, much like mine when I was walking to the cemetery. Our walks are almost identical. They are both purposeful and determined, but they are so different.

My formidable gate is a product of my anger and my confusion, while his was a product of his content.

He was a lot like me, except he was so much better.

I’m not sure if I’m insanely jealous or insanely in love.

○          ○          ○          ○          ○

The cemetery is barren, just as it was a few days before. The grass is almost as dead as the bodies lying beneath it.

It’s cold, abandoned, and oh, so welcoming.

I’m sitting on an old wooden bench and waiting. Frigid air bites at my uncovered skin, but I still feel warm. He doesn’t even have to be here, just the thought of him fills me with comfort and ease.

How have I let him do this to me? I barely know him, and yet he has consumed my mind. He makes me feel complete even when I am all by my lonesome.

My eyes dart to the cold, metal watch on my wrist. He’s supposed to be here soon. It’s 1:57. He said to come at two. Three minutes, it’s no time at all. Three minutes, it’s all the time in the world.

The wind is blowing and I think that my sanity is flying away with it. I’m excited, happy, nervous, terrified; and every emotion is magnified.

I can’t tell if I’m in a manic state or if I’m just undeniably infatuated with this boy.

The time is 1:59. What if he’s late? Will I be able to stand a few more minutes? What if he forgot? What if he’s in Boston, sitting on his couch, watching television? What if he doesn’t care? What if I’m nothing more than a lunatic to him?

I begin to pace. Back and forth, back and forth. It’s as if my body needs to catch up to the movement of my mind. The steady beat of my footsteps doesn’t match up to the speed of my thoughts and I begin to walk faster.

Every sound is amplified in my ears. Every time my feet crunch against the dead, dried up leaves on the ground, it sounds like my skull cracking. The soft gusts of wind sound like airplanes taking off into the sky.

My head is pounding, my heart is racing. Oh, God, what’s happening to me? Did he cause this? Or did He cause this?

What’s wrong with me?

Am I going mad?

It’s 2:02, and how could Michael ever care about some psycho like me? How could he love someone who is so afraid of loss?

How could I let myself fall into this trap so quickly? God, I’m going insane.

A bout of anger rises up from my gut. I don’t know exactly what is causing this new emotion, but I don’t care. I just need a release.

I’m not sure if I want to scream, throw things, hurt someone, or down a whole bottle of pills.

The anger breathes inside of me like some sort of demon that has taken home in my body.

Am I angry at Michael for not showing up on time? Am I angry that I let him trick me into thinking that I could finally matter to someone?

Or am I angry that I’m not good enough to do something great with my life? Am I angry that the only love I will ever receive has come from an odd man, practically a complete stranger?

Maybe there is nothing to blame for my anger. Maybe I have just gone so long without releasing any emotion that all of these built up feelings are spewing out of my mind. Maybe this is years-worth of anger, anger at my family, my job, my life, and myself; all coming out now in a huge, confused blob of hurt and sorrow.

Maybe this is everything that ever went wrong, all packed up into one, mind-numbing emotion. All of my mistakes, regrets, depressions, sorrows, and angers are congregated here.

It is 2:05 and my thoughts are louder than any sound in this entire boring town that I’m stuck in.

I’m so trapped. Trapped inside my mind, trapped inside my job, trapped inside this town. Trapped.

Am I angry for never breaking free from this life? Will I ever forgive myself for condemning my existence to be filled with loneliness and depression?

The rage is building inside of me, so forceful that I almost forget why I’m here.

I’m here for Michael.

Just the thought of him calms me down; it makes me feel like everything will be okay for once.

He may be late. He may never even come. I may never see him again in my life, but for now, and forever, I have the memory of him. Him, with his bright orange hair and his timid smile.

The time is 2:07and I am content. The sun is glowing and righteous. The autumn leaves that crunch on the ground are the same shade as Michael’s hair. The wind is now blowing soft, like his soft smile. He’s here. Just not physically.

He is everything and anything in the world. I find him in the grass and the trees and the sky. He is here.

He is everywhere and he is everything and he is everyone and oh, God, is this what love is like? Or is this just insanity; a manic state caused by the rush of emotions running through my brain?

Love. Is there such a thing? If there is, can it happen so soon? If it can, do I want it to? Can I handle love? Will I let myself succumb to the uncertainty and naivety of loving another person?

It’s 2:09, and I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m not in love, not just yet. Maybe I never will be. Maybe it’s not for me, but maybe it is. Just maybe, I can live a life of love. Just maybe, I can finally be a little less alone.

I’m still pacing, but softer and slower. My footsteps are not as powerful and loud as they were before. They are a soft pulse, just a subtle, persistent beating. The rhythm is nice; it feels easy-going. It’s comforting. It’s normal. It’s natural–

  And now it’s broken.

Someone else’s footsteps are piercing the beat of mine. Theirs are heavy and fast. Their gate sounds hurried.

I stop in my place as I hear the footsteps, which are soon followed by the sound of a faint heavy breathing. The breathing is followed by a shout of a name; a shout of my name.

I turn slowly and savor the anticipation and excitement that came from just the idea of seeing him. I turn just a little bit more and there he is. Him, and his bright orange hair and his dark pea coat and his soft, warm smile.

With quiet pants of breath in between his words, he says, “Hi, Luke. I’m so sorry that I’m kind of late. There was a lot of road work on my way here that I had to go around.”

“Oh, no worries,” I say with a smile. A smile. How odd. “I haven’t been waiting for long. So, how have you been?” For once, my voice doesn’t lack emotion. I sound happy and excited, like a normal person would. I feel normal.

“I’ve been great! A little bit stressed though. My audition is in a week,” Michael replies. He is twiddling his thumbs as if he’s nervous, but it isn’t the same nervousness that I saw on the day that we met. It’s not so much a fear of uncertainty, but more a fear of messing up; a fear of saying or doing the wrong thing.

“That’s good. So, what are you going to do for your audition? I couldn’t really help you with the whole ‘grief’ thing, so did you ask someone else about their experience?” I question. For whatever odd reason, a lightning bolt of jealousy strikes down my nerves at the thought of him talking to someone else in the same way that he talked to me. God, what is happening?

“No, I didn’t actually,” he laughs, “I was going to, but it almost felt like it wasn’t right. I can’t explain it because quite honestly, I don’t understand it myself.

“I decided to use your experience to help me build the character because I could relate to your story so much. I decided that the best way for me to play this character is not to grieve over death, but to grieve over a life that was never truly lived. I think I’ve really connected to the part that I’m trying to play. I’m feeling good about it, but I’m still nervous.”

“That’s great! I’m really excited for you,” I smiled. It’s so strange to be acting like this and talking like this. I feel like a teenage girl with a stupid crush. I feel awkward and slightly humiliated, but I feel so content and happy.

“You know, it’s kind of weird how much you’ve changed in just a few days. When we first spoke not too long ago, everything that you said seemed so, I don’t know, empty? You were emotionless and cold, but now you seem full of life. It’s odd,” he explains. He seems happy. He’s happy because of me. It’s nice.

“I’ve been feeling a lot better these past few days. Everything seems less hopeless than it was before. It feels like everything in the world is reachable,” I say, and I believe it, too. A happy life is obtainable. Love is just a few steps away.

“It took me years to get into that mindset. It’s taken you just a few days. Can I ask, what has happened since the last time we met that has changed you so much?” Michael questions, and I don’t know what to say. Do I tell the truth? Do I fake naivety, as if I have no idea what has changed? Does it even matter?

No, no it does not matter.

“You. You are what has changed. I don’t even know how, but you’ve made my life better. I know, you probably think that I’m completely insane, obsessive, manic, whatever; but I’m telling you the truth. You’ve changed how I see the world,” I ramble. My breathing is quickening as the pace of my speech increases, and I’m dying to let more words dive off of my tongue. Michael is standing silently, and I continue.

“I’ve always felt sort of buried. Like, there’s so many great people who have done great things before me. You go back thousands of years, and there was Jesus Christ. The most influential man to ever grace the Earth. Fast forward some time, and you have people like the founding fathers. You have all of these war heroes and brave men and women who have put their lives at risk for the sake of others. You have great poets; Langston Hughes, Maya Angelou, Edgar Allan Poe. You have great musicians; Ray Charles, Johnny Cash, Elvis Presley. You have authors and actors and politicians and activists and then you have me. I’m just here, living life in the middle class with no purpose and no place.

“But that’s not all. Then, you have the people that will come after me. The people that will cure cancer and end world hunger or write a life-changing novel. There are so many amazing people that are behind me and so many that are ahead of me. I’m just trapped here in the middle. I’m just a speck of dust on the big, beautiful timeline of our planet.” The words pour out of my mouth in the same way that water falls onto concrete. It splashes and splatters into a huge mess of scattered dots and confused lines.

The words are heavy in the air, but it is comforting to know that I will not have to carry the weight of them on my tongue for any longer.

Michael is staring at me with that same expression that I can never quite understand. It seems to me that he is the only thing in my life that I can’t analyze and make sense of. He’s so different to me than anyone else is. He keeps me interested and on the edge of my seat because I just can’t figure him out.

“You are extraordinary. You are a beautiful person with beautiful thoughts. They might be sad thoughts, but they are so insightful. Each word that you have said to me seems so meticulously crafted. Every sentence that comes out of your mouth is like poetry. Everything you say is so interesting and thoughtful and meaningful; I could listen to you speak for hours. I have met lots of people in my life, but Luke Hemmings, you are the most intriguing person that I have ever met,” Michael confesses. He is staring at me, right into my eyes, as if he can see my brain working through them.

I open my mouth, but no words come floating out. My throat feels coarse and dry. My thoughts are on hold. Everything is frozen.

For the first time in my life, I have absolutely nothing to say.

I almost always have letters and syllables cramped in my mouth, dying to escape, but not now. Right now, I have nothing to think about but Michael’s cool gaze.

I try to clear my throat, and a jagged coughing sound releases. I tear my eyes away from Michael’s and I look at everything, anything. I look at empty branches swaying in the wind and I think about when I was that empty. I look at the leaves flying around in the air vulnerably and I look back on the years of my life when just like those leaves; I didn’t know where I was going or even where I wanted to go. I look at the grey tombstones and I recall when I was that colorless. And then, I look at the last few clumps of grass that still shine like they did in the months of summer, and I am reminded of Michael’s beautiful, fluorescent green eyes that are boring into me with such an intensity that he might as well be shooting lasers out of them.

I try to gather up the nerve to speak, but I’m so unfamiliar to this sincerity and kindness that I don’t know the correct way to respond. My hands are shaking and my heart is pounding. It’s like I’m having a panic attack, but I don’t feel bad, necessarily. I feel alarmed, but this surprise is a good one.

Michael is still waiting for a response, and I’m pretty sure that both of us are worried that he’ll never get one. I’m not sure if I just don’t know what to say, or if I’m too afraid to say anything in fear that he’ll take back what he just said.

There are thousands of combinations of words that I could use right in this moment, but none of them seem good enough. None of them will be able to thank Michael in the way that I need them to.

This is why, instead of opening my mouth to speak, I open my arms and wrap Michael in a tight embrace.

He seems surprised and taken aback for just a short second, and then he wraps his arms around me and we hug.

It’s nice to be held like this. I can’t even remember the last time I hugged someone.

Michael’s head is close to my ear and the sound of his shaky breathing is like gusts of soft summer wind. Up close, his hair isn’t just orange, but it also has flecks of red and yellow. It’s like fire.

Everything about him is just so bright. His hair, his eyes, his smile. He is a streetlamp in the pitch black of midnight. He’s a light in all of the dark of my life.

I’ve been hugging him for quite some time now, and I know that this is probably getting weird for him, but I can’t move. I haven’t been this close to another person is such a long time, and now I’m not sure if I can ever bring myself back into solitude.

I was always so okay with being alone. I convinced myself that it was what I wanted; it was what I needed. I never questioned myself on this. I was meant to be alone. I always knew it and I always believed it, until now.

Now, I dream of phone calls at two o’clock in the morning and movie marathons and random coffee shop dates. I yearn to not just be close to people, but to feel close to them. I wish with my whole heart that for the rest of my life, I won’t be all by myself.

It’s odd. I’m the same person, but I’m so extraordinarily different. I’m not just an empty-headed, empty-hearted pharmacist. I don’t feel like some lame, socially awkward ex-junkie. I feel like a person. A normal person with a normal life that feels normal feelings and reacts to them in normal ways.

I don’t want to kill myself and I don’t want to kill anyone else. Not now. Not when my arms are wrapped around Michael and his are wrapped around me. There is not a single bad thought in my mind.

I do not want to swallow a whole bottle of pills and I do not want to even think about dying, not when he’s here.

My job as a pharmacist is no longer my own prison. My job is just my job. I don’t hate it and I don’t love it, but at least I don’t have to use every ounce of self-control that I have to prevent myself from downing bottle after bottle of pills. Not anymore.

Just a few days ago, the thought of slipping away sounded nice. I would’ve loved to gain the courage to just end it. I had nothing to live for, no one to live for.

But now, now I do.

I have Michael, and maybe I don’t know him at all, but he matters to me. Do I have to know his middle name or where he lives to care about him? Do I need to know his favorite food or movie?

That’s just stuff that I’ll learn along the way. I don’t need it now. Right now, I just need to know that Michael is here, and that he matters to me, and that I matter to him.

I know it, and I know that he knows it, and that’s all I need. I don’t need any more words. I don’t need any more worried thoughts.

I just need him, here, now.

I don’t need my name in sparkling lights and I don’t need to be remembered for years and years after I die.

I just need him.

○          ○          ○          ○          ○

Emerald green silence.

I am staring into his eyes and he is staring into mine. I am not moving; he is not moving. I am not speaking; he is not speaking. I am not thinking; he is not thinking.

It’s wonderful.

I have learned so much. So much about peace and love and happiness and everything else that I thought that I would never learn.

I have learned that my favorite thing to see is Michael’s smile. My favorite smell is that of the black coffee that he drinks every morning before he leaves to go to the set of whatever movie he’s working on at whatever time. My favorite sound is his voice.

I have learned that the best way to wake up is not with a cup of coffee, but with someone to share it with.

I have learned that fame does not equal happiness and that you don’t have to be sad just because you’re alone.

I have learned that Michael’s favorite food is pizza. He likes action movies and video games. He plays guitar, and he plays it well. He likes cats and rain. He loves tattoos. He hates playing sports. He loves his family, and he loves me.

I’ve learned a lot. I’ve changed.

I’ve stopped thinking so much. I realized that sometimes, my downfall was just my over-attentive mind. I don’t need to analyze everything and think of every possible outcome of every possible situation. I just let things happen. I leave things alone.

I’ve been smiling. I’ve been laughing. I’m happy. So, so happy.

Michael once told me that when we met, my eyes looked like the ocean during a storm. He said that at the time, they were the most beautiful eyes that he had ever seen.

Then, he told me that he was wrong. He realized that he was wrong a long time ago. He said that it was May, and we were lying down in a field. I remember that day. He was talking animatedly about the new Spiderman movie, and I turned and told him that I loved him. He explained to me that in that moment, he knew he was wrong, because he had known my eyes as a storm, but right then, they were a bright summer day, and they were the most beautiful eyes that he had ever seen.

I told him that if I was a summer day, then he was the sun shining down on me.

I’m happy now. I’m in love now.

I’m not sad or confused.

I’m not upset and angry.

I don’t beg for death.

I just beg for more life; more days to spend with my one true love, Michael Clifford.

○          ○          ○          ○          ○

The video begins. It shows a man with bright orange hair, presumably about forty to fifty years old, standing in a grey room.

“Hello, I’m Michael Clifford. I’m mostly known for my acting, but here’s a short film that I have created for the love of my life, Luke Hemmings,” the man says, and the screen switches to a video of the same man, only younger, and someone else, a man with blonde hair and striking blue eyes. The orange-haired man is smiling at the other, who seems rather distant. There are tombstones behind them; they’re in a cemetery.

“Michael, what are you doing with that camera?” The blue-eyed boy questions. He looks confused, and maybe even a bit irritated.

“Well, since I got the part, I need to practice being on a screen,” the man, Michael, says with a sly grin. The mouth of the other man drops open in surprise.

“You got the part?” He asks excitedly, not seeming so distant anymore.

“Yep, and it’s all because of you. Thank you, Luke Hemmings,” Michael replies. The other man, Luke, smiles bashfully and a blush rises to his cheeks as the video cuts out and changes once again.

This time, they’re in a solid white building. Luke is wearing a long, white coat and a name badge.

“Michael, what are you doing here?” Luke asks. He seems to be acting annoyed, but he’s smiling.

“I just decided to come check up on you at work,” Michael replies with a smug grin.

“Oh, I’m sure you have better things to be doing, like eating lunch with Brad Pitt, or something,” Luke says with a laugh.

“No, I just wanted to see my favorite pharmacist,” Michael grins.

“Oh, I see. You’re only here because you want me to give you drugs,” Luke says with sarcasm lacing his tone.

“Oh, no! You caught me!” Michael laughs, and the video changes again.

They’re in a field together, lying in the tall grass.

“I love you, Michael,” Luke says with passion in his voice and love written on his face.

“I love you, too, Luke,” Michael replies in a loving tone, and the video changes again.

They’re at a zoo. They’re both standing at the penguin exhibit. Luke is smiling as Michael waddles around him, pretending to be a penguin. The video changes again.

They’re in a dark room, or at least, Michael is. He’s under black lights with glow-in-the-dark walls and objects surrounding him. He grins and shows a plastic gun to the camera; he’s playing laser tag. He shoots the gun and an overdramatic scream is heard from a few feet away. He giggles, and the video changes again.

They’re in the air, screaming at the top of their lungs. The sound of metal running against metal is present in the background. They’re on a rollercoaster. The video changes again.

They’re in a loud, crowded auditorium. They’re both wearing nice suits and they’re smiling at each other.

“It’s time, it’s time!” A voice says as the camera is turned around to face a screen. On it is the beginning of a movie, starring Michael Clifford. The video changes again.

They’re in the field, again, lying in the tall grass, again. Michael is grinning at Luke deviously.

“What’s going on, Michael? You’re being weird,” Luke says with an odd look on his face.

“I’m just feeling kind of uncomfortable,” Michael shrugs.

“Why is that?” Luke asks in a concerned tone. Michael smiles and reaches into the pocket of his jeans.

“Well, this engagement ring box has been digging into my thigh,” Michael grins as Luke’s jaw drops. The video changes.

They’re in a church, wearing nice suits and smiling at each other with love in their eyes.

“I do,” Michael says, and he pulls Luke into his arms and kisses him with tears of joy burning in his eyes. The video changes.

They’re standing in front of a nice, quaint house with wide smiles on their faces.

“I can’t believe that this is ours,” Luke says with amazement in his voice, and the video changes.

They’re sitting at a table eating pizza.

“Michael, are you ever going to stop eating so much pizza?” Luke asks with a grin.

“Come on, Luke. That’s like asking me if I’m ever going to stop loving you. It’s not going to happen,” Michael replies with a smile. The video changes.

They’re sitting on a bed, just staring at each other. They’re not moving or speaking, just staring. Their gazes are loving. There is more passion and devotion in their eyes than anyone could ever imagine.

They look so in love.

The video changes again, back to Michael standing in the grey room.

“Luke, you were always so worried that no one would remember you. The real question is, how could anyone forget?”

He stares at the screen with a sad smile before the video changes once again.

The scenery is familiar. Michael is holding a white stargazer lily and a messy, handwritten note.

He slowly bends over, and places them on Luke’s grave.

 


End file.
